Grandma Got Run Over By a Tulpa
by circlebackwards
Summary: There's been a rash of hit-and-runs up in Colorado for the past few decades, all around Christmas, and all the victims are found trampled into the snow with reindeer prints all around. Except there aren't reindeer in Colorado. It's too ironically reminiscent of a certain Christmas song to ignore, and just suspicious enough for Sam and Dean to check it out on Christmas Eve.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is the first story I've ever bothered to finish, probably due to the extreme Christmas spirit I felt while writing this. Also it's almost midnight, and I just finished so please excuse any continuity errors or oddness in general (I'll review this in the morning). There wasn't really a set season this would take place, but probably sometime around/after season 5 since Cas and Dean are actually friends?

Based off this tumblr post: t-a-r-d-i-spacethefinalfrontier . tumblr post/71084655889

* * *

"Dean, wake up."

Dean grunted and rolled over, dragging the covers over his shoulder and trying to burrow deeper into the shitty motel bed. Damn, this mattress refused to keep in any heat in the cold Colorado winter.

"Dean!" This Dean felt the covers being pulled off him and tossed away, and he groaned, mumbling curses incoherently at Sam who stood at the foot of the bed impatiently.

"What the hell, Sammy? Can't let a man sleep on Christmas Eve?" He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and stretching. Dean ran his hand tiredly over the back of his neck as he headed for the pot of coffee on the kitchenette counter.

"It's hardly Christmas Eve, man; it's only 9 AM." Sam said, sliding into the table chair and typing something into the search bar. "And do you really have to make that sound? It's gross."

Dean poured himself a steaming mug of black coffee and slurped it loudly, smirking at Sam's annoyed bitch face over the rim. He pulled out a chair at the table as well and rested his head on his forearms as Sam continued to click-clack away.

Sam turned the computer screen around so Dean could see. "So get this. You know that Christmas song 'Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer'? Well a couple days ago, an old lady and her husband were driving to their son's house for the holidays when the husband hit something big in the snowstorm. The wife got out of the car to go see what it was, and then the husband heard her scream and a lot of noise. So he gets out of the car too and finds her basically _trampled _into the snow with hoof prints all around and over her, but none leading away." He clicked through the photos of the accident and the police report, as well as an animal expert's bemused confirmation that the tracks were definitely reindeer.

Dean grunted, "So? The expert could be wrong; people hit animals all the time, and moose aren't exactly the friendliest when you piss them off—believe me. Heh, remember that time when we were holed up in Montana and I went outside to chop firewood and I accidentally got between a momma and her baby moose? Man, that was scary as hell, zero out of ten, would not recommend."

"No, this happened here in Colorado. There are no reindeer this far south, Dean. Doesn't that strike you as a little odd?" Sam interrupted, pulling up a map of reindeer migration patterns. He was right, Dean noted. Canada was about as far as reindeer went.

"Yeah, but this one time doesn't exactly mean much. It could be a fluke or something weird like that." He sat back in his seat, downing the rest of the coffee.

More windows were pulled up on the screen, each from a different year, but with a similar headline of 'Grandparent/Woman/Man/Teenager Killed in Deer Accident.' Dean tugged the laptop closer in a sudden rise of interest. "See, I thought you would say that, so I took the initiative to see if anything like this has happened before, and I was right. The farthest case back I could find was in 1982. It was pretty quiet for almost a decade after that, mostly sporadic killings, but it happened again in '92; then it became a seasonal thing after '98. Every time around Christmas Eve, someone would be killed by a 'small moose' that had no tracks leading away," Sam explained, pointing at each of the case files. He finished, looking up at Dean to validate his hunch. "Look, I know it's not much to go on, but we're not exactly doing anything this Christmas, so why don't we go check it out since it's not that far?"

"Fine, Sammy," Dean sighed as he stood up to go pack the duffel to toss in the Impala. He turned and pointed an emphatic finger at his brother. "But I expect a damn good present!"

Sam laughed and shook his head, "Alright, Dean," and headed to pack up what he had as well.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam _finally _reached over to turn down the radio's volume after five hours (with brief breaks) of listening Dean raucously sing along to Christmas songs. "I didn't know you were so serious about getting into the holiday spirit."

"I'm not! I just wanted to see if that grandma song would ever show up on the radio—y'know, for research." Dean slung his arm across the backrest and belted out a line of Jingle Bell Rock, a song he'd memorized during the drive because it had played exactly 6 times and yes, Sam had counted.

Sam grimaced and was about to call his brother a jerk until he noticed the exit sign, at which he yelled out "Dean, left!" so they wouldn't have to backtrack through the snowy highway and probably miss it on the way back.

Dean made a sharp turn, the back of the Impala fishtailing wildly as they swung onto the deserted road that supposedly led to an out-of-the-way mountain town. "Dammit, a little more warning next time!" Dean growled as the car straightened back out and continued driving up the winding, steep road.

When they finally neared the bend all the newspaper articles said the accidents happened to accidentally happen on, they pulled over and headed the rest of the quarter mile up on foot, just in case the magic reindeer wanted to make a 'fuck you' surprise appearance. It was just past 4 PM and already it was getting dark, the winter equinox quickly approaching. It was already getting cold as hell in the thin mountain air—haha bad choice of words hell wasn't cold, he should know—Sam thought and grimaced to himself and blew on his bare hands.

After poring over the case in his mind for a while as they explored, Sam finally thought he had found a pattern for the attacks. Pulling out his phone, he checked to see if he got any reception. No luck.

"Dude, you're not going to get any up here. We're in the middle of nowhere," Dean pointed out, gesturing to the expanse of pine trees stretching all around them. "If you really gotta search something we can head up the mountain and try to find a lodge with wifi."

Dean was simply ignored and he gave up trying to weasel his way out of this bitter-ass cold and caught up to Sam, who had continued walking. "I have a hunch," Sam muttered, continuing to walk into an oddly rectangle-shaped clearing with his phone high in the air, trying to get a signal on it; succeeding, of course. He's Sam freaking Winchester. Immediately he began typing away on it, and after a minute he handed it to Dean. "I was right, the attacks coincide with the years the song became popular and when the movie was released in 2000."

"Hmm. Says the song became a hit in 1982, then kept being rerecorded and climbed the charts well into the 90s. Apparently Elmo liked to make covers of it; I always knew he was a sadistic lil' bastard. And since the film was released in 2000, I guess it's safe to say the reruns have been pretty popular." Dean finished skimming the article and tossed the phone back. He ran his hand through his frozen hair and blew a puff of air out of his lungs and watched the fog float away. "But we're not any closer to figuring out what this thing is, right?"

"Nope."

"We'd better search the area for anything supernatural then. I don't know if the EMF'll work well though."

…

After another hour of searching in the dark and freezing cold with flashlights, they reconvened and agreed that all they had found were five geometrical clearings. Three narrow strips, a circle, and a curved one.

"I don't know what the hell we're getting into Sam, but I still don't like it. What the hell leaves hoof prints and crop circles?" Dean stamped his boots onto the frozen, snow-covered ground, trying to get a semblance of feeling back into his toes. Flexing his fingers, he took the paper map they'd brought with and tried to figure out how to get back to the main road, find the Impala, and hopefully go to a motel with good cable and a Magic Fingers bed to sleep on.

Sam didn't want to waste time finding a motel, but Dean managed to convince him to head back to Impala to warm up and watch for creatures. Back at the car, the only ideas they had come up with after forty-five minutes of keeping an eye out were shape-shifters or some asshole ghost of a reindeer.

"Come on, Dean. Just pray to Cas and ask him if he can come check it out," nagged Sam for about the fifteenth time.

"I told you, I don't want to bother him in case he's doing something important!" Dean snapped back. "Besides, he probably wants to spend Christmas—that's a thing with angels right?—in Heaven with his other angel buddies, not us poor souls. He's already helped us out a ton, and we ain't gonna bother him for something this minor." Dean really did feel bad about all the times they called on Cas to save their asses, only to be able to do nothing in return for the angel. Sometimes he wished he could find a way to let Castiel know he really did appreciate him and how many times he'd been able to save Sammy when Dean himself could not.

"Just send a quick prayer," Sam urged, "Tell him it'll be really quick if he's got any ideas." The car was stonily silent for the next few minutes while Dean glared at his little brother. "We're his friends, you know," Sam added softly. "Maybe he doesn't want to spend Christmas in Heaven with a bunch of other angel dicks. You could just say a quick prayer wishing him a merry Christmas and maybe he'd like to pop by here? And while he's here he could just…take a look around."

Dean finally relented and began to pray to Cas, since the angel conveniently ignored most of Sam's prayers.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a couple hours since they'd tried to contact the angel, and it was now almost 9 PM. Dean had fallen asleep praying, so eventually Sam decided he could nod off too. He rested his head against the freezing window pane and settled into his coat to sleep and wait for Castiel to show up, which hopefully wouldn't be much longer.

Neither of the brothers slept well for the next three hours; they kept waking fitfully and starting the car for a bit to warm up, then repeating the whole thing. It was miserable. Eventually they gave up and sat there and watched the clock until it turned to 12:00.

"Merry Christmas," Sam chattered through his teeth with an ironic smile, offering a candy bar deformed from all the heating and refreezing it had experienced.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean peeled the wrapper back and snapped the candy in half, giving it to Sam. "Merry Christmas, Sammy," he replied, wondering how their lives could be so fucked up that they were spending Christmas in a freezing car, on a mountain, looking for something supernatural and giving each other candy bar presents.

After a few more companionable, freezing minutes in silence, Dean spoke. "Do you think he heard me? He normally responds." His voice was tinged with a little worry as he thought about what little Cas had told him of Heaven's troubles.

"I'm sure he's just tying up a few things and he'll come down and help us. He never leaves us hanging when it comes to hunts. When has he never come through for us?"

Cas had hung around in the backset and watch the two Winchesters for a few minutes to listen to their conversation before making himself visible. He tried to ignore the little stab of hurt he felt when he understood they didn't _just _want him there for Christmas, and that they mostly needed his help. He didn't actually want to spend Christmas with his sisters and brothers, and he had been joyful when he received Dean's prayer. He'd told any in his garrison who would listen that his _friend—_how many of them could claim they had a friend?—wanted him on Earth for the holiday. He was very proud. He was the first in the garrison to make anything akin to friendship, which the other angels merely interpreted as codependence. But whatever, Castiel was always the odd duck who liked to play on the ground, instead of keeping his head in the clouds. So Cas made himself visible with the soft, tell-tale flutter of wings and schooled his features into an indifferent mask.

…

"So what do you think, Cas? What could possibly be doing all this? Killer reindeer, flat corpses, odd-shaped crop circles-slash-rectangles—this is like nothing I've ever seen before." Dean bounced on the balls of his feet to keep warm and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. His cheeks were ruddy and unshaven as he sucked the ice cold air into his lungs and blew it all out, trying to make bigger clouds than before.

Castiel fixed the hunter with a penetrating stare. "As usual, Dean, you see but do not observe." He paced a short distance along the perimeter of the clearing they were currently in. "You say there are other cleared areas like this?"

Sam shuffled over and dug in his pocket for the paper scrap he'd drawn on as they explored the area. "Yeah, there seem to be three rectangle clearings, a curving one, and at the center of it all a circle." He handed the map to Cas, who didn't take it, but merely glanced at it.

"I saw this from above when I came in," Cas said, taking a pen from Sam and moved towards Dean. "Hand."

Dean looked confused. "Why?"

Cas stared him down again before overstepping his way into Dean's space and taking his hand.

"Uh, Cas, what are you doing? Like I consider us close and all, but personal space? We talked about this?" Dean stood rigid, staring intently at Cas for the few seconds it took the angel to jot something onto his palm.

"You've seen this before." It was a statement by the angel, and apparently the fifteen seconds it took for Dean to recognize the symbol was too long to be silent. "It's a Tibetan spirit sigil," Cas supplied.

Dean jerked his hand back from the angel, who had absentmindedly forgotten to let go and was tracing Dean's long fingers. "You mean we're dealing with a tulpa?" His face was incredulous, a little pissed that he hadn't figured it out himself, and his eyebrows shot up. "Santa's a freakin' _tulpa?" _

With that, Castiel fell back into alert angel-soldier-guardian-of-the-Winchester's mode. "Of course not," he said slowly, as if Dean were thick in the head. "Father Christmas, as humans call him, is a cherub. What you're dealing with here is a manifestation formed by misguided children watching the film 'Grandmother was Trampled by a Rangifer tarandus.' Like Mordechai in _Hell House,_ their innocent belief that grandmothers are targeted by reindeer are focused by this sigil and transformed into reality."

The two things Dean picked up from possibly one of the longest paragraphs he'd ever heard Cas say were 'Santa's a cupid' and 'Mordechai hell house.' "Whoa, whoa, whoa. First of all, how do you know about Mordechai? That was years before we met you. I'd just taken Sam away from Stanford to find Dad. Man, did you freaking read my mind?" He was getting really angry at the possibility that Cas had probed his mind and found god-knows-what-else in his subconscious.

Castiel straightened, somehow assuming an insulted, offended air without even changing his facial expression. "_No. _I have been reading lately; I have found some books that I read so as to get a better insight into you, Dean and Sam Winchester. The omniscience of the author is very helpful. I believe you know him as Chuck."

Sam and Dean tried to talk over each other as they exclaimed their surprise.

"What the hell, man! Do not read those! Erase every memory you have of those books!"

"How? _Hell House _wasn't one of the published books, and I told Chuck he couldn't publish any more of them!"

Cas simply shrugged in his _utterly ridiculous trench coat _which Dean suddenly decided to notice. Completely. Ridiculous. "The internet directed me to an amateur author web page where I found them unprofessionally published. Momentarily I thought they were fiction, but I quickly recognized them as the Winchester Gospels."

"_Becky._"

After they got over their irritation and disgust of Becky's continued publication of the _Supernatural _books, Dean remembered the whole 'Santa's a cupid' bit. "So…Santa?"

"Ah yes. This Santa you speak of is actually a cherub. He does not necessarily influence romantic love, but rather cheer and spirit during the holiday. I do not know why he has evolved into the myth of a rotund man who likes to wear crimson and bear gifts for children. If you wish an example I can provide the 'Christmas Truce' in 1914 along the Western Front of World War I. It is considered to be one of his finest interventions and accomplishments."

Like a typical nerd, Sammy geeked out over the historical reference. "You mean when British and German soldiers had a ceasefire around Christmastime and sang carols, exchanged gifts, and all that stuff? That was Santa?" Yep, way too excited for a grown man.

When Sam calmed down and stopped fangirling, Dean finally got around to asking Cas where the tulpa sigil had come from, since the attacks happened decades before the _Supernatural _books.

"It was mostly likely discovered in a book like Craig Thursten did and made the mistake of clearing trees on a mountain to make a giant sigil. I am aware it is a thing people here do. There is an large 'A' made of stones down the range."

Dean shook his head, muttering, "What kinda weed do they smoke here to put supernatural-summoning shit on a friggin' mountain? So what do we do to kill the Reindeer Tulpa?" He sniggered at how ridiculous that sounded; this was certainly one of their more eccentric cases.

"Well," Sam suggested, "we know from Mordechai that shooting him doesn't help, and we can't really change a movie or song that's been around for years. The tulpa's already established itself, so we'll need to destroy the sigil. I have no idea how to do that, other than hacking down an entire area of forest."

"If I may," Cas ventured tentatively, "we should lure it into the open, then destroy the sigil so we may be sure it is destroyed before our very eyes." He shifted awkwardly, suddenly aware he was not the one to usually be consulted during hunts.

"That's fine and dandy, Cas, but we still don't have a way to destroy the damn sigil," Dean pointed out. "And there's no way in hell we're going to tempt that thing into the open until we have a surefire way to kill it."

In a rare moment of blatant self-awareness, Cas tapped a finger against his temple. "Angel, remember? Did you see your grave after I raised you from perdition? I am capable of flattening mere trees on a mountainside if I wish."

The Winchester brothers glanced at each other and gulped a little bit, sometimes they could forget Cas was not a puppy in an over-sized coat. "That'd be great, Cas," Sam finally responded. "While we lure the tulpa out, you go stand in the center, and when you hear us scream, just let loose."

Castiel looked around at the frosty, but still verdant, forest around him regretfully, aware he was about to demolish a beautiful part of the earth. Unfortunately, it wasn't the worst thing he had ever done, or would do, to help the Winchesters. Always happy to fall for them, in more ways than one.


	4. Chapter 4

After Cas had wandered into the forest, assuring them he knew exactly where to go, Sam turned to Dean. "Hey, Dean… Funny thing, how the other victims were driving—not walking—definitely driving, when the tulpa appeared…" He shifted away from Dean uncomfortably, wincing.

Dean's face took on an expression of abject horror. "No. Not Baby. We're not running Baby into a tulpa." He protectively stroked the hood, and half contemplated tossing his brother out of the car and making a run for it.

"Come on, Dean," his brother pleaded. "We won't even hit it that hard…"

…

Dean wanted to cry. Not like a baby. But like a grown-up cry adults cry when something they really, _really _love is about to die. Dean had a lot of experience with that, yes sir he did. He made sure to suck that waterdrop threating to roll down his cheek back into his tear ducts as he started the Impala and began to gun her up the mountain road and too soon, they were at the bend. Dean restrained himself from closing his eyes and floored it, until he felt a solid smash against the car and slammed the brakes.

The brothers barely shared a glance before jumping out of the car and looking wildly around at the quiet forest. And then they heard the pounding of hooves against asphalt. Maybe 'twas because it was night time in a dark forest the morning of Christmas and visions of Will Graham danced in their heads, but they were fucking terrified.

A reindeer with huge antlers was barreling towards them, and suddenly finding their voices, Sam and Dean let out the most blood-curdling screams and started shooting at the damn thing. Didn't help, of course. It just continued charging straight at them. Dean was too slow to jump out of the way like Sam, so he got tossed by antlers onto the ground, where the impact knocked him out. The reindeer tulpa advanced on him and was just getting started on tapdancing on Dean's chest when something like a sonic boom rippled through the forest. After a brief second of swaying on their stumps, trees began dropping like bodies all around them, miraculously avoiding the boys _and _the Impala. Truly, a Christmas miracle.

The vicious reindeer had also vanished and Dean and Sam took in wheezing breaths. "Why the hell was that so scary? We've had worse!" Dean rasped from the ground, clutching his ribs.

"No idea," Sam gasped, "but I think I'm not afraid of just clowns anymore."

Cas appeared next to them, looking mightily proud of his handiwork. "Is it gone?" He surveyed the area, and upon noticing Dean's condition, went over to the hunter and casually touched his fingers to his forehead, knocking Dean out cold. "I fixed the worst, the minor scrapes will heal on their own so it is best if Dean sleeps for now." His gaze traveled almost affectionately over the hunter's slackened face.

…

When Sam and Cas finally drove up the rest of the way up the mountain—Sam refused to leave the Impala on the roadside, knowing there would be hell to pay when Dean woke up if he did—they found an actual lodge where they checked into a room and settled Dean onto a bed. Castiel offered to watch Dean while Sam took a shower, which Sam gratefully accepted.

Freshly warm and clean, Sam pulled on a red plaid shirt and grinned at the priceless scene before him in the room. Dean was slumped and curled against Cas, evidently seeking what body heat the vessel generated, and Cas had a softness about his eyes that was not normally present, though outwardly he remained the stoic angel. Sam grabbed his cell of the desk and snapped a quick picture of the two.

Cas looked up startled; he had been to engrossed in staring at Dean that he had not consciously registered the shower turning off. He felt instantly uncomfortable, but could not move from his current position without disturbing Dean. Apparently Dean was a very covetous sleeper, he noted. Though he was not sure if it was only because of the cold this time. Castiel made a plan to test it out later, where Dean was comfortably warm. Fascinating human.

"Shh, Cas," Sam whispered, "Just a few more pictures, _please, _this is too perfect." So Cas remained still and stared at the camera phone lens.

While Sam took several pictures in rapid succession, Cas carefully double-checked his work to make sure at least the shallow scrapes would not scar. He felt another surge of pride that he had fixed Dean again, and maybe, just _maybe¸_he had fixed the minor flaws in Dean's vocal cords? What would his name sound like in Dean's newly-tweaked voice? More importantly, how much more distractingly wonderful would classic rock songs sound coming out of his hunter's mouth?

Sam was positively, fucking _gleeful _of the photos he now possessed. He scrolled through them quickly, starting at the last one he'd taken where Cas was staring into the camera, obviously uncomfortable but content, with Dean sprawled against his side. Sam made a mental reminder to get these pictures printed out at breakfast and give them to Dean. No matter how much Dean would call them girly and demand he get rid of all the evidence, he knew they would be safely stowed in the dash until they were worn and frayed from all the times Dean would thumb through them. When he got to the first photo, right before Cas looked up, his heart twinged. Cas was staring at Dean with utter adoration that Sam just couldn't think it sinful for an angel to love something more than Father. The angel had an arm carefully placed across Dean, so that he looked like he was guarding the hunter. _Mom always said angels were watching over us._


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry about the incredibly cheesy ending, I didn't know what else to do... I would have posted this in the morning except the site wouldn't let me log in. Did that happen to anyone else? Anyway, I hope you all had a merry Christmas or a happy day!

* * *

When Dean woke up, his growling stomach was greeted by the smell of scrambled eggs and bacon. He checked around the room for Sammy and found him stuffing his moose face with the breakfast. Sitting up and stretching, Dean wandered over and began filling up his own plate. "Where's Cas?" he mumbled through a mouthful of egg.

Sam swallowed and reached for the eggnog in front of his plate. "He said he had some stuff to take care of. Must have been a several hours ago, he didn't stay long," he mentioned to Dean, glancing at his watch.

"Oh, uh yeah. Well." Dean shifted awkwardly, vaguely disappointed that Cas hadn't bothered to say goodbye to him. The brothers finished eating in silence until finally Dean wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I do actually have a present for you, Sammy. Come on," he lead the way out the door since he'd fallen asleep fully dressed.

After finding their way to the parking lot where Sam had parked the Impala, Dean choked. "Sammy!" He ran over to her and ran his hand lovingly over her hood. "Not even a dent or a scratch!"

Sam grinned ear to ear. "I'd say tulpas don't leave much of a mark, but we don't lie on Christmas. To be honest, it was Cas who fixed her. She had a couple pretty bad dings, but he fixed them as easy as popping dents out of a soda can." He stuck his hands in his pockets and smiled as Dean stroked Baby, murmuring sweet nothings into her exterior. "If you look up, you'll see my present," he coughed, after seeing enough of Dean's weird fetish with his car.

Chortling as he saw the reindeer antlers attached to the windows and sleigh reigns and bells carefully strung up around Baby, Dean pulled Sam into a hug and thumped him heartily on the back. "Man, this is great!" They stood there for a while longer, just sipping eggnog and admiring the snowy Christmas morning on the mountain.

With a _whoosh _of wings Cas appeared right in front of Dean. Yes, this time he could pass it off as just being a bad flier and misjudging his landing distance (again). "Hello, Dean. Merry Christmas." He searched Dean's face for any hint that he was not wanted on the brother's holiday. Hearing awkward coughing to his left, he turned to see Sam, who was turning a merry shade of pink.

"Hey, Cas. Merry Christmas to you too, but I thought you had more important things?"

Cas returned his full attention to Dean. As if there was anything more important on Christmas morning than Dean. "I handled them. I just wanted to check if you were awake. I can leave, if you wish…? I under stand this is a holiday for family."

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "You're family too, Cas!"

Oh Father, forgive Castiel for thinking Dean's voice around his name sounded sweeter than any church choir.

"Besides," continued the hunter, "a while ago I picked up a gift for you too, just in case you dropped by." He circled around to the Impala's trunk, which he rummaged around in before pulling out three small packages. The first two he tossed to Sam, chuckling at his expression as he read the labels.

"Really, Dean? Hair _mousse_? And 'Moose Poop'? I don't think you'll ever grow up."

"It's not _really _moose poop," Dean drawled, "they're various chocolate-covered nuts—and yes they are healthy. That's just what it's called up around here."

Sam shook his head, smiling and Dean handed the last small box to Cas. It was fairly plain, save for the twine Dean had tried to elaborately tie into a bow. Cas tilted his head, staring curiously at the thing in his hand, before being prompted to open it. Inside was a brand new phone, which he plucked out of the box.

Dean cleared his throat. "Since prayers only go one way, I thought it might be helpful for us to have a more direct way of talking. I already programmed Bobby's, Sam's and my numbers into it, so you can just call us if you ever need to." He gave Cas a tentative smile, hoping the gift was not absolutely despised.

Cas met Dean's eye with a surprised, yet truly grateful look. He had never expected to be included in the tradition, and he was not sure if angels as a whole were above the entire thing. Dean had thought of him, and he wanted to talk more. It was…thoughtful. He appreciated the gesture, and now he was worried he had nothing to reciprocate. This worry he voiced to Dean, who waved it away saying repairing the Impala was way more than enough.

The trio remained at the lodge for the rest of the day, called up Bobby to wish his a merry Christmas too, and ate dinner in the restaurant section. The hunters stuffed themselves with turkey, stuffing, potatoes, and beer while the angel picked at his food, more content to watch the brothers genially bicker over the best Christmas fare—turkey or ham.

While Cas wasn't looking, Sam snatched his phone off the table and sent the picture from last night to it. Then he set it as the phone's background and lay it back next to Cas, none the wise. Later, he would see Cas stare at it fondly before wrapping his fingers back around it and slipping it into his coat pocket.

Nearly at eleven that night, Sam was just about to drift off to sleep when he heard the murmurs of Dean and Cas' conversation. "Take care, and try not to get in trouble with those other angel dicks." and "I will, Dean. Thank you…for all of this." With that Dean rested his hand on the angel's trench coat-covered forearm and Cas took a pleased stare at their proximity before vanishing with a flutter of wings.

Dean's posture looked downcast, from what Sam could tell in a dark hotel room, and the older brother placed a chair near the window and gazed up at the stars. Sam would have to blind and deaf to not know Castiel would not go far from the hunters. Certainly not as far as the stars. Maybe Chicago. And he drifted off to sleep with the last image of Dean resting with his head on a window, waiting for Cas to come back.


End file.
